


Awake

by Birdbitch



Category: DCU
Genre: Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:16:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick wakes up alone and confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> You know when a character is presumed dead and you really don't want that to be the case so you do everything in your power to make that not happen? This is that.   
> Crossposted to Tumblr.

Dick wakes up and doesn’t know where he is. He can’t, precisely, remember much of what might have happened—there’s a vague recollection of Luthor’s hand smothering him, but after that…nothing. There’s nothingness and he’s having trouble even trying to think, and when the thoughts come, they’re sloggy and sluggish and wrong. He knows—he knows that he was able to think faster, at some point, but there’s the hope that the speed will come back. Already, he’s processing quicker than when he came to consciousness. His chest hurts—that he remembers, and if it didn’t hurt so much to move, didn’t take so much energy to even think about doing it, he’d jolt up. He has to tell Bruce that he’s okay—well, alive—and he needs to do it as soon as possible—but when he tries to shout out, his voice feels dry and the spit in his mouth is too thick.

At the very least, he’s awake enough now to see that he’s hooked up to machines, and that’s totally not terrifying, all things considered. They must be in some kind of bunker, something—everything else would have been compromised (and he can’t help but feel like it’s his fault that they were). The door to the room opens and it’s Tim, and he looks surprised to see that Dick’s awake.

“Hey. Can I get some water?”

He nods and leaves the room again, unable, it seems, to respond with words. When he comes back, he has a plastic cup with a bendy straw, and he comes to Dick’s side and stares at him. “I’m. Wow. How are you?” he asks, and Dick tries to laugh but it hurts too much.

“Thirsty,” he says, and Tim’s eyes go wide and he looks embarrassed, moves too fast and spills some of the water when getting the straw to Dick’s mouth, but the it’s finally there.

“I’m sorry.” There are, it seems, a lot of Tim wants to say, but he’s not going to say them on his own, and Dick feels bad about it, but he’s too tired to work it out. Maybe some other time, he’ll do it, but right now, he can’t. “Um. Apart from the. Everything. How do you feel?”

Dick thinks about it and he closes his eyes. “I don’t know. Fragile. Terrible. Better than ever.” He opens them again. “What happened? Do you know?” And it’s easier to talk, now that he’s had something to drink, but still feels like there’s something unfamiliar about forming words and he hates it.

Tim shrugs and he’s avoiding looking at Dick now. “I—I don’t really know. I don’t. And the people who do—they’re not talking about it. Dick, you were—I think you were dead. No—no, you were, you were dead. What happened?” Dick turns his head away, because he doesn’t really want to think about what happened. Too much, is the answer. Too much, and he can’t remember a lot of it, is getting cloudy right now thinking, getting a headache trying to think harder, but Tim doesn’t press for any answers, like maybe he might have an idea that it hurts. “Jesus. Someone—I have to tell Bruce you’re awake—”

“How is he?”

That’s something Tim definitely doesn’t want to answer, and his face looks torn when he opens his mouth. He still can’t look at Dick. “I don’t really know. He’s. Not right. I guess. I mean, he’s had issues before—”

“You’re telling me this?”

“But. When he’s here, he’s working, but he’s not really here, ever, like he feels like he has to, I don’t know. Repent. Something. I thought he was going to kill someone. He would have, you know, if Superman hadn’t gotten there, I think. You were gone. He couldn’t—he can’t think, not like he’s supposed to, you know? He thinks. But he can’t. And it’s terrifying. I hate being in the same room with him but at the same time, I don’t think it’s okay to leave him alone.” Tim looks at Dick, finally, and his eyes look watery. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody really devastated before in my life, to be honest. I. There’s the word but, but it’s.”

Dick watches him, watches the way he’s choking up, trying to act like everything hasn’t been so completely terrible, but it’s difficult. Something tells him that they thought he was never going to wake up again. “What happened? Who brought me back?” he asks, but Tim can only shrug.

“Maybe he made a deal with the devil.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He would.” Tim stands up, and he smiles, and it’s shaky, but it’s still a smile and it’s the first one Dick has seen in a while. “I’m so glad you’re back, Dick.” And he leaves, and Dick is alone again.

It’s enough time to himself to try moving his toes, try regaining the muscle control in his fingers and hands, and it’s even worse that it doesn’t come back automatically. He knows that it’s a slow process (especially if he had been really dead, like Tim said), but it’s frustrating and he wants to scream and wants to thrash around and he can’t. At the very least, he’s propped up, can finger the button to lift him into a sitting position, even if he feels too weak to even think about doing it on his own. It keeps him from thinking about Bruce.

But god, Bruce. He didn’t—he never deserved any of this, didn’t deserve to watch anybody die, and Dick doesn’t know—can’t possibly know what he’s going through. Maybe he did lose something in that moment, and if so, Dick can’t help but feel responsible, even if it might not have been his fault. His head hurts even more, and the lights suddenly feel too bright. He closes his eyes to try to shut it out, and not long after hears the door opening again. Whoever it is stands still for about fifteen seconds, assessing the situation, and begins to turn, but Dick can’t—he doesn’t want to be alone.

“Please stay,” he says, and the door closes again, with heavy footsteps coming towards him. It’s Bruce. It’s Bruce, moving with the weight of guilt (and Dick can almost hear it—”Should have been me, should have been me, should have figured out how to dismantle it, should have—”). His eyes are closed, but he knows it, knows the presence of the man like second nature, even now when he can’t even control his own body.

“You’re awake.” It isn’t a question, but it’s soft and even a little afraid.

“Yeah,” Dick says. “I am. It’s just. Bright in here.” He hears Bruce move, hears him walk back towards the door, and then the pressure of the light is no longer slamming against his eyelids so terribly and he feels he can open them. When he does, he looks around and tries to smile. “Romantic in here with the lights dimmed, huh?”

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice is gruff, but not in a Batman-warning kind of way. He’s tired. Broken hearted. Devastated. “You’re.”

“I am.” He swallows. “I want to hold your hand, but I don’t think I can move my arm enough.”

“We can work on that.” And it’s so strange, how little it actually sounds like Bruce. It’s him, but it’s…different. Dick isn’t sure he likes it. He does, however, like the feel of Bruce taking his hand in his own larger one, missed the feeling of that kind of protection, and he watches Bruce slowly bring the hand up so he can hold it against his cheek. It’s too tender, too unfamiliar, and there’s something in Dick’s chest that feels like it’s breaking. The crack gets wider when Bruce starts crying. It moves his shoulders like rolling hills, makes him heave despite the lack of sound other than his deep, sharp breathing, pulls tears down his cheeks. It doesn’t look like Bruce, and Dick starts crying because this isn’t the way things should be. This isn’t how they should ever be.

But he can move the first two fingers on that hand, can twitch them enough that it takes on the semblance of stroking the side of Bruce’s cheek, and Bruce looks at him and tries to stop crying. “You know, Bruce,” Dick says, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you cry before.” It’s supposed to be funny, but it doesn’t work, and he has to close his eyes and take a few of his own deep breaths. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” he says, and he can’t find the strength to stop it. This is his fault, he thinks.

It does stop, though—it stops with Bruce leaning over and kissing him, chaste and gentle and with the sense that, if he does anymore, he’ll break Dick. He leans back, still clutching Dick’s hand, and Dick looks at him, feeling dazed and a little bit irritated, but not enough for it to stick for long. He moves his fingers again. Bruce hasn’t shaved in who knows how long, and it doesn’t matter, but for some reason, it does. It all matters. There are deep circles under his eyes, and those eyes are lined with red rims. The grey at Bruce’s temples has dug deeper into his hair, and there are wrinkles that Dick swears weren’t there before. He looks like hell (though Dick’s not sure he can really say much more for himself).

“What, so I have to die to get you to kiss me?”

“Dick, can you please not joke?” And the second the words leave Bruce’s mouth, Dick feels like an ass. What an insensitive thing to say.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry—” And Bruce knows, doesn’t want to hold anything against him, and leans in again to kiss Dick’s forehead. When he starts to pull back, Dick whines. “No, please, wait—” He tilts his head up. “Bruce. We need to talk.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, Dick—”

“Bruce. Please.” They both shut up for a moment, Bruce hovering over Dick, and Dick unable to tell him anything. They need to talk, but he doesn’t know where to start, and he’s starting to feel a pounding in his head. “Do you—do you have anything for headaches? And can I take a bath or a shower or—or something?” Bruce looks at him and nods. They’ll have the talk, but it can wait. Right now, they have some kind of time.


End file.
